


pity me my comrade of the road

by SeeCee



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeCee/pseuds/SeeCee
Summary: Peter wants to spice up his sex life. It doesn't go as planned.





	pity me my comrade of the road

**Author's Note:**

> phew, this story was meant to be finished a long time ago.  
> don't fall in love, guys, it hinders you at thinking and working properly.
> 
> Please enjoy!

“Peter? What-” with a startled whack Peter bonks his head against the bedframe he was reaching under. “-on earth are you doing down there?”

“Na- nothing!” he says, righting himself tellingly suspicious.

“Right,” Edmund smacks, regarding him. “Why exactly have I been summoned here?” Then, looking his bare-chested brother over with a raised brow, adds, “It's not because of a wardrobe malfunction, is it? Because in that case you had better ask Su. Your prickly nature does not go well with prickly needles. This is bound to end up in another porcupine fiasco. A Peterpine, if you will.”

Peter has no wardrobe malfunction. In fact, he is quite purposely semi-undressed. Indeed, he'd meant to lounge seductively on the bed, awaiting his paramour with black silk woven around a red rose clamped between Peter's pearly whites. Clumsily, Peter, in his fidgeting of accessing the ultra sexiest pose, had bitten down on the bitter green stem and, juice bursting on his tongue, had promptly spit it out. Hard enough that it bounced off the sheets and to the floor. He had shot out a hand for it but only succeeded in slapping it down harder and pricking his finger on one of the two artfully remaining thorns. Stung finger in mouth, he had then proceeded to climb off the bed to retrieve the malicious plant but, occupied with looking at his warwound, ended up crushing the bud beneath his heel. Emitting a self-frustrated sigh he dropped to his knees and pushed the flower under the bed, carelessly crumpling the silk and stuffing it in his pocket.

Is he going to admit any of this to his brother with the self-righteously raised brow? Fuckitydamndoo NO.

Peter rasps, expanding his shoulders very kingly, and says instead, low and commanding, “Come here.”

Edmund's head drops lower, the raised brow joined by a second, growing from cheeky to a murderous what-the-fuck-did-you-just-say-to-me ?

Immediately, nerves are lost.

“Please? I mean, I just thought-”

“Oh my God,” Ed exclaims, realisation hitting him at last. “You called me for sex?”

Lost nerves and a case of profusely sweating palms. Peter needs to abort, right now.

“Uh-”

“Thank fuck,” Ed continues a bit muffled through a grin and his immediate divesting of his own shirt. “And here I thought you were mad at me for something,” he says, while undoing his breeches deftly. “Because, I mean, I _know_ you're busy with the new border treaties but I can't even remember a time we hadn't had sex for such an incredibly long time, so I just _figured_ you were cross with me and-” crouching down to get everything off, socks included, only to stand back up straight, naked as the wondrous day he was born, concludes with a giddy voice, ”Anyway, nevermind all that. Where do you want me?”

Peter, as perplexed by the speed of his brother's undressing as much as by his words would actually like to point out that a) not having had sex for two weeks isn't _incredibly_ long and b)

“Hell, you're pretty.”

And Ed truly is. With his marble skin and confident stance, the growing erection and that dazzling smile that morphs into a full on laugh as he rushes forward and jumps up into Peter's arms, pressing a bubbly kiss to his lips.

“And you are ridiculous as always, husband.”

Cupping his face like that, the kisses continue. And as so often in these moments, Peter is wrest ashore.

Because what else exists that could be greater? What else could be needed for absolute happiness?

Oh well.

Taking a few steps back, so his calves may hit the bed, Peter sits down on the mattress, Edmund still in his lap nestling up like a cat.

Peter forces the words past the nervous ball in his throat.

“Babe, I thought- maybe- I could... tie you up.”

There's a small but noticeable hitch in Edmund's rhythm but then he seeks out Peter's gaze, rolls his naked crotch into him.

“Yeah?”

Peter notices how uncomfortably sweaty his palms are, shaky too, but nevertheless he pulls the rumpled silk out of his trousers, presenting his lover with it. Edmund blinks at it surprised.

“You're actually serious about this.”

“We don't have to-”

“Oh no, we do,” Ed counters. “I mean, I definitely want to I just figured this would be a quickie, the Kanaptry island delegation is waiting for me in the rose room.”

Peter bites his lip, nodding sympathetically.

“I understand. You mustn't keep them waiting-”

“Oh, fuck them,” Edmund exclaims, snatches the silk out of his brother's hand and clambers past him to the headboard only to sprawl out like a starfish.

“Come over here and tie me up, you varmint.”

There's a definite flutter of instant regret in Peter's stomach but, with a glance at Edmund's golly erection, he swallows it.

So the first wrist goes.

“Tighter. Tighter!” insists Edmund joyfully. “I'm the head of our secret intelligence institution, I've freed myself from shackles made out of live snakes, I've trained non-speaking mice to get through iron holds, I-”

“I know, dear,” Peter agrees. “You're an awful menace.”

Once the wrist is securely knotted to the bedpost, Ed testingly yanks at it. When it holds, his eyebrows jump in suggestive joy. There's a small make-out break where Edmund roughs up Peter's hair awfully and rather painfully until Peter plucks it off and realizes it was done quite on purpose. So he binds that one immovable, as well. Displayed and restricted, Edmund's feet wind over the sheets, hips thrusting helplessly into the air.

“Fuck, I'm about to spill already,” he moans and Peter, too, sort of marvels at how much precome's been leaking out already.

He clears his throat and then procures the last thread. Edmund regards it quizzically, his lips so invitingly red from all the biting.

“For- your eyes,” Peter offers.

One of Edmund's writhing legs bumps against him, causing him to look down. His gaze gets stuck at his husband's cock. A giant drop is forming on the head. Leaning over, he licks it right up. Edmund groans. Long, guttural and Peter misses the hand that under normal circumstances would have been undoubedtly on his scalp now.

“Please, Peter,” he calls out. “The blindfold, as well.”

Not refusing himself to pleasure Ed a bit longer with his mouth, Peter relents eventually. But first, he simply must take another kiss from this already so debauched-looking boy. And the way Edmund strains up and into him, whimpering so sweetly, makes Peter think that maybe this wasn't such a ridiculous idea after all.

Alas. Once his sight has been taken and his movement restricted, Peter breathes, “Now just relax, love,” over Edmund's trembling lips, before hopping off the bed and getting out of his breeches.

“Touch me, Peter.”

“Just a moment,” he assures with a grin and in his eagerness half trips over his feet.

Catching himself in the last second, he then gingerly proceeds to climb back atop the bed and his brother. Wickedly, as he plans to be sly and not have any part of him touch Edmund but rather tease and torment before ravishing him all at once.

Certainly a good plan in theory. What Peter failed to calculate properly though was what it meant to have a brother, who is the head of the secret intelligence institution in Narnia and thus little less of an actual spy; Peter upon caging his husband in with his body, slipped with one foot over the satin sheets causing not a sensual teasing sensation but a) a sort of predatory pounce and b) that his at times quite gymnastically-inclined husband reacted in instinct.

Spread-thighed, and trying to avoid a direct collision with Ed's knee, Peter's hand smashes down on his unsuspecting abdomen instead. Edmund kicks up. Peter blanches.

“Aslan's mane! What was that?”

The colour having drained from his face, Peter would very much like to explain to Edmund but as it happens he was too paralyzed by pain. There is nothing coming out of him except the most high-pitched wheeze, hands clamped tightly on his crotch.

“Peter? What did I hit? Talk to me, are you dead?” he asks panicked.

Unfortunately, the High King is undeniably defeated.

“Help! Somebody! We need help!”

 

In the end, dear old Mr. Tumnus had the misfortune to find and assist them. He had been on the hunt for the absent King Edmund anyway. Pressing a bag full of ice to his tender parts, Peter, forever mortified, then had to watch his husband instill in their friend to 'never breathe a word of this to anyone!' Which of course Mr. Tumnus would never do anyway. Probably.

Thus, Peter spent the rest of the week accompanied by that bag of ice, while Edmund kept profusely apologizing and due to the circumstance of Peter shying from his well-meaning touches, gained three pounds because he is so prone to stress eating. Peter would try to be more consoling if he didn't suspect the source of his brother's distress to be less in his guilt of having possibly caused lasting damage but more because he was afraid of how this might affect his own pleasure.

Regardless, Peter was healed soon enough and what's more he had a new idea on how to proceed with his plan of total kinkization.

 

So in the next week, during which he is woken up almost daily by conciliatory blowjobs, he sends out a bunch of inquiries ensued by a couple of orders.

 

“They were supposed to be here. I don't understand,” Peter murmurs, going through various kitchen cupboards.

“Well, what _are_ we looking for anyway?”

“It's supposed to be a surprise.”

“I get that and I promise to be sufficiently surprised should we ever actually discover whatever it is.”

“You're a menace.”

“Yes, that has been amply established, though you may finally sign my request to have it officially attached to my already numerous, prestigious titles.”

They can't find it so Peter has to improvise. Apparently with sweet corn and honey and peanut butter.

“Ew,” Ed says.

“Don't knock it till you-”

“Violently puke and shit a whole night from it?”

Peter sighs. Edmund grins, presses a conciliatory smooch to his cheek and takes the damn peanut butter.

Hopping onto the counter, he unscrews the lid and immediately plunges a finger into it.

“That's not particulalry hygienic,” remarks Peter.

“So you brought me here for lessons in hygiene?” Edmund counters and holds the finger out.

Peter steps in between his dangling legs, opens his mouth and holds eye contact. Edmund slides his fingers in, lets Peter's tongue lick, swirl and suck, as he keeps pushing and pulling. When Peter finally releases them, Edmund leans forward for a sweet kiss, his hand already back in the jar.

“How does it taste?” Ed asks, before putting his fingers to his own mouth, smearing the peanut butter all over his lips.

Peter leans in and traces the finger with his tongue.

“Divine,” he breathes.

There's another smile appearing on Ed's face which Peter covers right away with his own mouth.

“Still, I'd rather nibble on something else,” Ed says once his lips are clean again. So he pushes Peter lightly from him to jump down from the counter, reverse their positions and pressing Peter against it. Thrusting the jar into his older brother's hands, he falls right to his knees, pulling the breeches in front of him down. Peter, already painfully hard anyway, has to keep himself from gripping and jerking his dick to relieve tension, since he knows full well how drawn-out Ed can be when he's in a playful mood. And the mischievous glint in his eyes does little to reassure.

He begins by lightly caressing the inside of Peter's thighs, which makes him stutter out a breath. Then he moves on to fondle his balls and press against his scrotum, which elicits an anticipatory moan. After, he holds two of his fingers up, which Peter looks at confused until he eventually understands to lower the so tightly-clutched jar. Edmund lathers his dick up, the combined sensations of stroking fingers and the breath hitting his head, driving Peter slowly mad. He observes it all, then suddenly Ed's hands disappear from his cock so he can clean them up, only he's pinning Peter down with his intense gaze. Finally, finally he steadies his hands on Peter's thighs, opens his mouth and moves forward.

There's a yell.

“My eyes!”

“Lu- Lucy!” Peter pushes out and away from Edmund.

“What are you doing in the kitchen? Why are you doing it in the kitchen?”

Peter scrambles for tissues and explanations, while his sister alternates between seemingly scratching her eyes out and begging the Lord's absolution for her insufferable brothers.

“I only wanted to get more strawberries and chocolate! I don't deserve this!”

“You took it!” Peter screeched.

“You got us chocolate?” Edmund wondered enarmoured.

“Lucy come over here.” Peter then suddenly screeched a little less loud but more distressed.

With an indignant screech of her own Lucy decided, “I will most certainly not!”

Ed only looked quizzically at his husband, who in turn tried to look reassuringly back.

“You're lips are... a bit... swollen, dear.”

“So? I've just been sucking your -”

“My ears! I. am. LEAVING!”

“Oh my tongue feels sorta numb...”

Peter knows exactly every state of Ed's lips, especially the kiss-swollen and bitten ones, so this state right here? Definitely reason to screech alarmed.

Turns out Ed is allergic to peanut butter. Poor Lucy goes to get her cordeal. Afterwards all three try hopelessly to forget the whole incident.

 

A week later they're walking hand in hand through the rose garden talking about this and that when Peter is so overcome by affection that he guides Ed onto a bench and proceeds to kiss him soundly. Ed giggles, chastises him because anyone could come by. Peter nuzzles him regardless but then over his shoulder he spots a certain someone, who he  _knows_ has always had a soft spot (and a hard one) for Ed.

“What would you say if we invited someone tonight?”

“We've only arrived yesterday, isn't it a bit early to already plan the next gathering?”

“No, not like that. I meant into our bed.”

Edmund puts a hand between them and pushes Pete a little away.

“Like a woman?”

The way he says it makes it clear he's still not over Lady Anthales making a move on Peter three years ago before they were married. Peter is hard-pressed not to laugh. Jealousy is such a foreign concept to him.

Lightly, he grabs his chin, turning his eyes on the intended person. Edmund's eyebrows climb up intrigued.

“Corin?”

 

“He won't come.”

“He will. He said he would.”

“Only to be polite. I've offended him.”

“I'm telling you, he'll come.”

Corin does show up, clad in an easily divested night-gown, erection already poking. Peter notices Ed looking at it hungrily and something in him twinges. Probably excitement.

“Glad you could make it,” Peter says, picks up the third glass of wine and walks over.

“And I am glad for the invitation,” he answers and they clink glasses, then his eyes wander over Peter's shoulder. “I wouldn't have missed this for the world.”

There's a warmth against his back, Edmund leans his chin on Peter and reaches for Corin's drink.

“I'm sure we will have the most wonderful fun.”

He gulps it in one.

They all undress each other and then start kissing. Peter, for now keeping in the background, lets the boys explore and enjoys the show. Only when Corin's hand finds its way into the flesh of Edmund's ass does Peter intervene. He covers his husband's rear, forcing Corin's retreat.

“It is not my intention to impose any rules but this-” he says and yanks Edmund back against his pelvis, “will always be mine first.”

“Of course,” Corin agrees with a slight bow of his head. Edmund says nothing but Peter knows him well enough. He releases Ed's form and Corin's hand lands in his hair, pulling him further away from Peter and into a kiss. His eyes close, his mouth opens submissively.

He's never seen Edmund like that and it gives Peter a strange feeling. Excitement, definitely.

Then Corin's hand wanders over Ed's nipple and down to his length. Edmund moans.

Peter's fist flies.

Three pairs of eyes look shocked at the High King's hand in Corin's face.

“What-” Ed tries.

“Corin, you need to go,” Peter orders, a second fist, seemingly uninentionally, judging by his rather wide-eyed perplexity, already shooting out and narrowly missing Corin's side.

“Peter, if I did something-”

“Leave!” he yells, kicking out.

Corin flinches away, slips back into his gown and flees ungainly.

Edmund throws himself back onto the mattress.

“What, the hell, was that?”

“I will never speak to Lady Anthales again,” Peter declares and then covers Edmund's laughing body with his own.

 

Not a week later, back at Cair, Peter sojourns down to the village tavern. A couple of patrons glance his way upon entry, some incline their head but they all know this is not a place for rules of curtesy and shows of respect. Anyway, Peter is here for a different reason, that he glimpses sitting at the bar, going over some sort of correspondence. Inwardly, he sighs. Always work and never play. He struts over. Ed doesn't look up.

“You're new around here,” he remarks coquettishly, thrusting his hip out.

Ed looks up, then down, then back up.

“What is that supposed to- What on earth did you do to your hair? What are you wearing?”

“You like it?” Peter asks, going through the buzz.

“It's... different,” Ed replies.

“Yeah, keeps the others from yanking on it. Never could stand that.”

Edmund takes in his appearance a moment longer, the open-collared, short-sleeved white farmer's shirt, the super tight leather breeches. He reaches a hand out, going through Peter's hair, as well.

“Seriously. What is going on?”

Inwardly, Peter sighs.

“Nothing you don't want, sugar.”

A second longer Ed regards him with genuine puzzlement. Then the coin drops.

“Are you trying to pick me up? Are you pretending to be a hooker?”

“Anything you want, baby. I'll make your dreams come true.”

An amused snort bursts out of him, he rubs over Peter's scalp again.

“Don't tell me you cut all your wonderful hair off, just for this.”

“I don't do anything for less than 5 gold pieces, kissing is extra.”

“Well, then let's take a look at your particular skill set, although I have an immediate inkling that you're going way below your worth.”

Ed buys a room for them and they already start making out dirtily on the stairs. Once inside Peter presses him to the wall.

“So, what's your story?” he asks huskily.

Ed smiles amused and lets Peter kiss along his neck.

“Is that what I'm paying you for?”

“It's what some of the others do.”

“How many do you have?”

“In a night? A week? Depends, of course I have a couple of regulars, and once in a while a cute piece of ass like you shows up. So, spill, where are you from?”

“Would you believe me if I told you from another world?”

“I've heard crazier. What did you do there? In that other world.”

“I was a stupid, mean, and selfish boy.”

“That it? Nothing all that terrible about it.”

“And if I told you that I lusted after my brother? Is that terrible? That because I felt so confused about it and scared I started acting out. I isolated myself from him because I couldn't stand the thought of him hating me. And because I felt so lonely and wrong I was petty and mean. Yet all I wanted, the whole time, was for him to hold me.”

Suddenly Peter grabs him, crushes him to his chest.

“Peter?” There's shaking, then a stuttery sob. “Oh for fuck's sake, are you seriously crying?”

“I'm sorry,” he bawls, “I didn't realize. I'm sorry I didn't understand you better.”

“Oh, for the love of- that was ages ago. I'm over it.”

But Peter can't stop his ugly crying, so Ed puts them into bed, cradles and soothes his awfully pathetic, ridiculously good-hearted husband.

“You better don't expect a tip,” he grumbles and turns the lamp off.

 

After his latest attempt, Peter sits down at his study and tears at his own hair, he had never in a million years expected exciting sex so hard to achieve. On top of that, he felt like he was losing his husband's patience as well if this went on much longer. One last attempt he would give them. So he dunked his quill and stared down at the blank sheet for a long, looooong time.

 

Three hours later Ed storms in, letter in hand.

“What, in Aslan's name, is this?” he demands.

Peter stutters out half an explanation. Edmund looks at him incredulously, then he whips the letter up, and to Peter's mortification, reads some choice passages aloud.

“Your red apple globes,” he says.

“The white foam of our lust-sticks,” he says.

“The surge of your man breasts,” he says. 

Peter looks sheepish, Ed exasperated.

“Why?” he asks finally. “Why must I go through all this?”

His husband, too humiliated and exhausted for any more of this charade, finally comes out with it.

“I'm trying... I want to be less boring.”

“What?”

“I said-”

“No, I heard you. But who the hell put that notion into your head?”

“Well...”

“It was Su, wasn't it? You shouldn't have eaten that last piece of cheese cake, I told you. And you know exactly how she can get in everyone's head. You shouldn't have listened to her.”

“It wasn't Su.”

“What, Lucy said that? You must have misunderstood her. She was probably just telling another story, you know how fast she talks and always confuses herself.”

“It wasn't Lucy.”

“By Aslan's mane, Peter, who the hell was it then? Corin? I'll kick his ass, too.”

“You were,” Peter admits.

Edmund is stunned silent by confusion. “When did I ever-?”

“You fell asleep.”

This makes him sit down. After a few seconds of contemplation, he looks at his still embarassed husband.

“I honestly don't remember.”

“A month ago. On our anniversary.”

Edmund stares at him.

“Are you serious?”

“...Yes.”

He gets up, walks over to Peter, who is sitting on the edge of their bed and climbs into his lap.

“Peter,” he says very, very serious. “I had eleven orgasms that day. I passed out because I was exhausted.”

“Well, maybe, but-”

“No, maybe. No, but. Peter, I know no one who is as greedy about sex as you are. And I don't mean how often you want it but whenever we do it, it's almost never just a quickie. I mean, I thought I knew what marathon sex was before you and I got together. But you are just... so greedy.”

Peter still looks unsure, so Edmund takes his face in his hands.

“The way you always hold me down and still. Your cock, which is always so hard and you stick it in and then don't move because you rather want to keep kissing. And I am a man and a warrior and there shouldn't be anything that could make me cry anymore but you do, Pete. Regularly. Because I'm always so turned on and frustrated and yet feel so loved and revered in your hands that I can barely take it.”

Peter's eyes soften up and Ed leans in for the sweetest kiss. Nevertheless, his fingers move up to their tips, grazing Peter's skin, his ass grinding down into Peter's crotch.

“But if you're really set on spicing our love-making up then maybe I have just the thing we'd both enjoy.”

Peter's breath hitches with anticipation, so Ed leans in to whisper in his ear.

“Daddy.”

 

The end.

 


End file.
